


little moments

by edokko



Series: Dulce et Decorum Est [1]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-08 14:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12256560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edokko/pseuds/edokko
Summary: It's the little things that keep us going, when all seems lost.A collection of moments between Collins & Farrier.





	1. May 31st, 1940

“Do you ever think about dying, Collins?”

Farrier takes a quick drag of his cigarette, trying to make himself look more collected than he really feels. No matter how many times he goes out to fight against the enemy, it’s never easy to face death.

It’s the night before they’re going to be sent out over to Dunkirk.

The ensuing silence makes Farrier quickly regret asking such a serious question to Collins—they get along well, and it’s getting harder to make excuses to himself on why he shouldn’t try to get to know the young recruit better, but he’s always guarded his emotions, never wanting to get too invested. War only takes the good people away from him, a never-ending repetition of growing friendship and undeserved sudden deaths.

Collins eyes go wide for an instance. He’s not used to Farrier being serious—not in this way.

“'Suppose every man must think of it now and then.” Collins fidgets with his hands as he thinks of a response. “Try not to too much though, it would drive a man mad.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Collins recognizes that longing gleam in Farrier’s stare as he looks out towards their Spitfires, Farrier nodding slightly to acknowledge Collins’ response. Farrier understands the nature of being a pilot, better than Collins thinks he ever can: the liberating exhilaration of when you’re flying, far above the ground and sea where the cruel war is taking place. The humming of the engine and the blue sky that goes on for miles, and the sacrifice that's expected with having one’s own wings.

Collins also knows that Farrier recognizes the look of unease and fear in the other pilots' eyes right before they take off for a mission, the momentary terror that grips Collins’ gut each time he sees an enemy plane behind him: the approach of your own death moving towards you, the last thing you might see before it's all taken away. No one dares to speak about the whimpers or muffled sobbing of the soldiers in their sleep, piercing screams sometimes waking up Collins in the night (Farrier seems immune, never stirring for even a moment); but they have to carry on and make the best of what they can. 

Farrier realizes he’s starting to forget the names of all of those lost on missions he’s taken, a list he promised himself he’d never forget. He gets out his journal from his pocket, scribbling down a reminder to himself to send flowers and condolences to the wife of the most recently killed pilot of their squadron. 

The silence is starting to weigh down on Collins. He grins at Farrier and makes a small sound with his throat, trying to defuse the awkward tension. “You still owe me a pint anyway for losing that bet last week, and we’ve got Michael as Fortis Leader-- he’s one of our best.”

Farrier smiles radiantly, revealing a youthfulness that Collins rarely sees. He always looks so weary that Collins forgets he’s only a few years older than him.

“Always the optimist, Collins.” Farrier says dryly, without malice. He stubs out his cigarette with his boot and starts to make his way back to the barracks.

Collins looks up to the sky, apricot colored clouds slowly giving way to the night and her stars.

He tries to remember this moment in his mind; a rare moment of peace in the hell men call war.

 

 

It’s the 3rd day of soldiers arriving from Dunkirk when Collins starts to fear the worst.

Farrier isn’t coming back. _Farrier isn’t coming back._ Farrier’s bunk, right across from his own, is starting to collect dust, his sparse possessions accentuating the emptiness of the space.

Collins tries to keep the panic in his voice still each time he asks his new superior about Farrier.

“I’m sorry son, we still haven’t received any other news. No new information apart from what I told you before--our soldiers saw a Spitfire that looked like it was gliding, and then we heard others saying they saw black smoke rising from the far end of the beach.”

Collins thinks back to that night’s conversation, repeating each word in his head, as if it was an incantation that would bring Farrier back to him, alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love the relationship between these two, and I couldn't help writing a fic...they just have a really great dynamic. I'm very much out of practice so I'm sorry if it was hard to read or riddled with inaccuracies or mistakes. I'm planning to add more chapters to this as inspiration hits, so thanks for reading so far ! 
> 
> talk dunkirk to me @m_m1198


	2. March 2nd, 1940

Collins motions to the bartender to get his attention, placing what little money he has left on the counter.  
  
“Two more pints, please.” He says with a wide grin, unable to contain his excitement at the prospect of _more_ alcohol.

The bartender says nothing while pouring the beer, hastily accepting the money while throwing an annoyed look at Collins.  
  
The pub is filled with men, all soldiers in one branch or another, enjoying their time off with plenty of beer and cigarettes, a thin haze settling over everything and everyone. Collins rubs his eyes with his fingers before grabbing the two glasses—he still can’t get used to the constant smoking that seems to follow wherever there are men.  
  
Collins weaves his way carefully through the drunk men, and sits down at the creaky wooden table next to Farrier. The older pilot has started discussing detailed formation tactics with the two other pilots from the squadron, which means he’s starting to get drunk.  
  
“Oi, Farrier, you’re boring the rest of us with work talk.” Collins rolls his eyes as he takes a long swig of his beer.  
  
Farrier scoffs and glares as he takes his pint. “You’ll regret not knowing tactics better when a Jerry’s on you Collins, which, if I remember correctly, seems to be quite often lately.” The others laugh and sneer at Farrier’s comment, while Collins scowls, his pride a bit wounded.   
  
A young, lanky soldier dressed in army green, with a long scar along his jaw approaches their table, his eyes bloodshot.  
  
“Look at you lot, in your nice fancy uniforms!” He struggles to stand up straight, constantly swaying. He glares at all four of the RAF pilots until his gaze fixates on Collins. “Did daddy pay for your flight lessons on the weekends, pretty boy?” The soldier’s face twists into an ugly, mocking smile as he stares down Collins.  
  
Collins struggles to keep his anger in check, his hands starting to shake.  
  
Suddenly his uniform feels too tight around his throat, his body being pulled forward and smashing into the table. The precious beers fall onto the ground, glass shattering into tiny pieces and covering the floor.  
  
He can smell the stink of drink on the soldier’s warm ragged breaths, his face only inches away. Drops of spit fall onto his cheeks as the soldier growls loudly:   
  
“ _Fuck.You. Lot._ ”  
  
Collins feels the release of the soldier’s grip as two loud consecutive _cracks_ vibrate painfully throughout his left ear, and he's confused as to why his assailant is suddenly on the ground, grabbing painfully at his nose and groaning.  
  
Farrier’s shaking violently, his right hand flecked with blood.  
  
“Don’t lay your dirty hands on my fucking men.” He snarls.  
  
Chairs are violently knocked down as Collins quickly grabs Farrier with all his strength, trying to hold him back from hurting the soldier any further. Likewise, two other soldiers with similar haircuts and uniforms to the one on the ground throw a threatening look at the pilots as they approach the scene, but quickly drag their friend to a corner to look at the damage to his face. Farrier continues to struggle, trying to slip out of Collin’s grasp.  
  
“Get the hell out of my pub!! _NOW!!!_ ” screams the bartender, fingers pointing to the door.  
  
Collins sighs, looking at the other two pilots from their squadron, who give him the same disappointed look back, but remain in their seats. He understands and nods.  
  
The door slams hard the moment he’s dragged Farrier out with him into the chilly March night. Collins exhales deeply, his breath turning white.  
  
He places Farrier on the pavement just outside and sits next to him, the cold numbing his arse. The older man leans on Collins’ shoulder, eyes half closed.  
  
“Nice 48 hour vacation we spent.” Collins says sarcastically out loud, not expecting Farrier to answer.  
  
They’d gotten special permission to leave the base as one of their squadron members had died in a horrific training accident the week before, with most pilots pretending like nothing happened, the wound still too fresh to talk about.  
  
Collins doesn't tell the others that he can still hear the screams of the man in his dreams, the feeling of helplessness seeping throughout his thoughts as he watched the man burn alive, unable to do a single thing.   
  
  
“Couldn’t stand to see him talk to you like that. To any of us.” Farrier says after a long pause. He shivers, and Collins rubs his shoulders to try and keep him warm.  
  
Collins replies with silence, unable to find any words to express his conflicted feelings.  
  
“Can you light a fag for me?” Farrier asks, still shivering. Collins deftly reaches into Farrier’s right breast pocket, bringing out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver colored lighter. Farrier opens his mouth and grabs the cigarette between Collins’ fingers with his lips, breathing in deeply as soon as it's lit. Collins decides on a whim to have one himself, the brief flickering flame of the metal lighter offering a touch of warmth to his hands.  
  
Collins inhales deeply.  
  
He starts hacking and coughing, the smoke burning his lungs and throat, his eyes watering to the point that a tiny tear falls from his right eye. Farrier starts laughing; a low, hearty laugh.  
  
Collins’ coughs become smaller until he can finally take another drag of the cigarette, eyes still misty but his head beginning to feel the high. Farrier looks at him and smiles, the cigarette quickly disappearing into smoke between his lips.  
  
“Smoking never was your choice of poison.” Farrier states, amused.  
  
“Drinking myself to death is the way I’d rather go.” Collins replies sarcastically back, a smile on his face.  
  
The two sit on the pavement, enjoying each other’s company in silence.  
  
After the third consecutive cigarette, Farrier’s eyes start to droop, the sudden burst of adrenaline from the fight wearing off. The lit cigarette starts to come loose from his lips, Collins quickly grabbing it before it can drop and burn the older pilot. He puts it out on the ground, reflexes telling him to throw it away, but he puts it back into the bright red packaging, slipping the carton back into Farrier’s pocket.  
  
Collins kneels in front of Farrier, guiding and pulling on the other pilot's hands gently to place them on his own shoulders. Farrier’s grip is weak, but Collins manages to hoist him onto his back in one swift movement. Farrier’s body is warm against his back, relaxed as he falls deeply into sleep.  
  
It’s a ten minute walk to the inn they’ve rented for the two days, a simple and humble home, but a luxury compared to the cots they’re now used to sleeping in. Collins kicks open the door to their room, and he gingerly places Farrier on the closest bed.  
  
Farrier’s breathing is still steady when Collins puts a thick wool blanket on him, making sure to tuck in the corners underneath his feet and shoulders. Farrier’s aversion to the cold is well known on base, Collins constantly teasing him for always having an extra layer or two on, even during most summer days.  
  
Collins impulsively leans down, lips barely grazing Farrier’s forehead as he gives him a small kiss.  
  
“Goodnight, Will.” Collins whispers, praying that he didn’t wake him up with such a rash movement. His heartbeat is pounding loudly in his ears as he quickly strips off his blazer and tucks himself into the closest bed next to Farrier.  
  
Sleep quickly overtakes him as he thinks about the touch of Farrier’s smooth and cool skin against his lips, surprised at his own audacity.  
  
Farrier smiles as he hears Collins’ infamous snores commence.  
  
“Goodnight, Collins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still nowhere near as versed as I would like to be on military life during WW2, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway. 
> 
> I found the lack of respect towards RAF pilots in the movie quite fascinating, and reading up on how RAF pilots were seen by the public and other branches of the British military during WW2 as dashing young men who were all having the time of their life while piloting planes was strange yet interesting (we all know it was really not that simple...)
> 
> Also headcanon that Farrier is a total chain smoker who can't hold his drink well, while Collins is the complete opposite-can drink anyone under the table but secretly can't stand cigarettes.
> 
> <3


	3. April 20th, 1940

“So who’s the lucky lady waiting for you at home?” Once the words are out of his mouth, Collins cringes, realizing he never wanted to hear them out loud, no matter how many times he practiced saying them in his head.

  
They’ve been granted an hour of free time before the briefing on tonight’s reconnaissance mission, with plans, tactics, formations, and targets all being told rapidly and last minute to prevent any information from making its way into enemy hands.  
  
Collins doesn’t remember when or how this ritual started between them before briefings, where he manages to sneak a bottle from somewhere and someone and where he meets Farrier by a large tree on the edge of the base with beautifully shaped verdant leaves, a thin train of smoke visible as he approaches it each time, Farrier sitting and smoking a fag, always.  
  
  
Farrier looks annoyed as he exhales a long cloud of smoke, tapping the ashes from his cigarette.  
  
“What do you want to know?” Farrier asks back, threateningly. Collins thinks his face looks more irritated than usual.  
  
“Does she have a name?” Collins asks, trying to make light of a tense situation he realizes he put himself into.  
  
  
He bites his lower lip and wills his heart to calm its rapid beating, as if the whole world could hear its restlessness, including the man sitting right next to him. Farrier takes another long inhale of his fag, showing no sign of wanting to spill any details.  
  
Collins had never been one to quit, his calm demeanor masking a fiery, stubborn, and competitive spirit that only his family knew. He’d conquered tests, exams, competitions-- even the hearts of the many women who swooned over him throughout his life, even though they were short term flings that always fizzled out as quickly as they started.  
  
He’d never expected to fall in love with someone at base, much less a man: a stubborn ace pilot a few years older than him, weathered by life and the war but still alive and healthy, with strong broad shoulders and tousled dark brown hair that he was always tempted to touch; someone who was always so close, but felt so far away.  
  
Collins remembers the day he received his letter, calling him to serve as a disposable pawn in a game politicians called War, he realized much too late for his liking. His father’s desperate, angry threats and his mother’s tears and pleas as they begged him not to enter the RAF, afraid that their youngest son would become another lamb led to the slaughter, just like his older brother only a few months earlier. The animalistic howl his mother let out is still fresh in his mind, her tortured face sometimes haunting him in his sleep, especially on nights after horrendous missions.  
  
Becoming a pilot was a dream since childhood, and the itch to fly was in his blood, with his father being an ex-pilot during the Great War. From a young age, he knew that there was some connection between the bottles of scotch, gin, or beer his father seemed to drink like water and his war memories, his mother telling Collins never to worry about it, that it was something that only adults would understand.  
  
In the end his older brother had beat him to it, beaming with pride that bordered on arrogance as he showed off his blue woolen uniform after being accepted into the RAF. He remembers feeling jealous, angry, and in awe all at once that his brother got accepted first, as if he'd taken away what should have been rightfully his.  
  
“I’ll be an ace pilot flying Spitfires by the time you’re flying one of them kiddie training planes.” His brother had said with a wink when they said their goodbyes before he left for Uxbridge. Collins vowed to beat his brother’s records, whatever they may become.  
  
But his dream had died along with his brother, who was shot down by Jerry on his 8th  mission in his Spitfire, two confirmed kills shy of being recognized as an ace. The death certificate said that it had “been instantaneous,” but nobody in the family was fooled or comforted by such euphemistic words. Just another young life wasted fighting to protect King and Country.  
  
He doesn’t understand any of it: why his brother had to die so young at age 24, only two years older than he is now; how he manages to meet death head on in the skies almost every day, yet still grab a pint at the pub like it’s just an average day; the ever growing love of the freedom he feels in the sky, and the fear that he might lose it all, especially Farrier.  
  
His dear, dear, Farrier.  
  
  
“Her name is Margaret. She’s the daughter of a family friend. I’ve known her since I was young. ” Farrier’s deep voice breaks Collins' chain of thought, his mind scrambling to think of the next appropriate question.  
  
“Did you get her a ring?” Collins feels like an idiot, trying to feign interest in a subject he regretted asking about the minute he opened his mouth.  
  
“…No… I couldn’t afford something nice for her at the time.” Farrier gazes downwards, his voice flat, leaving Collins feeling even more stupid for making him admit to something shameful.  
  
Collins smiles weakly, wishing he could be stronger, wishing he could put into words this feeling he’s been carrying around with him ever since he met Farrier.  
  
“As long as you love her, I suppose that’s all that really matters?” He almost chokes on his own words, as if he’s admitting to having committed a great sin.   
  
“That’s an awfully romantic thing of you to say.” Farrier has been an expert at deflecting questions aimed at getting personal information about him since the moment they met, barely letting any information slip about himself, except that he grew up in London.  
  
“Must be all that Lord Byron my mum made me read growing up.” Collins winks and Farrier lets out a loud peal of laughter, hints of tears welling up at the corners of his eyes.  
  
Collins wishes he could see this side of Farrier more often.  
  
“I’ve got a few small books of poetry, if you’d like to borrow them sometime. If you ever get tired of reading reports and the paper.” Farrier lowers his voice as if he’s sharing a terrible secret.  
  
“Who was the romantic one, again?” Collins teasingly responds.  
  
Farrier opens his mouth, but stops himself before he says something he worries will ruin the mood.  
  
He suddenly moves his arm to wave, and Collins sees a small blue RAF uniform on the horizon motioning for them to return.  
  
"I'll show you after the briefing." Farrier says as he slowly gets up, dusting off loose leaves from his uniform.   
  
"You promise?"   
  
Farrier smiles. "I promise, Collins." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So personal hc that Farrier has a fiancee back home cause obviously that's the only acceptable thing for men to do at the time. Also that he's secretly a huge literature and poetry buff even though he's from a less privileged background than Collins which means he'd probably be less exposed to it unless he learned about it on his own (seeing how Collins says "afternoon" so calmly after almost drowning I feel like he's got to come from privilege or be incredibly suave or both). 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! Thank you for reading.


	4. December 5th, 1940

_A warm slant of light makes its way across the walls, illuminating specks of dust in their cramped room._  
  
_Farrier welcomes the warmth the morning sun brings, but happiness quickly turns into dread with the realization that it’s another day of the bloody mess they’re in._  
  
_He didn't even have to check for Collins--he knew he'd already be in the mess getting a coffee to drink with two sugars and a dash of milk, trying to enjoy a quiet moment of being alone. Farrier had never once woken up before Collins since the younger pilot had joined his squadron, as if Collins was completely in sync with the sun and her rhythms of waking and sleeping._  
  
_After Collins joined, Farrier couldn't remember a single morning when he wasn't woken up with the smell of a dark, bitter cup of coffee just the way he liked it, waiting for him on the worn down wooden table right by his cot. At first he found it strange--why would anyone, particularly this fresh faced boy, bother to show such kindness towards him when the war raged on each day, taking the lives of their own and the others without a thought? The first day it’d happened he’d thought about giving Collins a lesson on trying to butter up your superiors, but seeing him in the mess and in the pub trying to break the ice with their squadron mates changed his mind._  
  
  
_Farrier makes his way to the mess, quietly sipping on the coffee and shifting around his white turtleneck sweater until it feels properly snug. Collins always takes the seat in the corner by the wall, the best place to observe others, and that’s where Farrier finds him. Farrier rubs his eyes still full of sleep and the sunlight beaming through the mess lights Collins' golden locks aflame, his face drawn in all seriousness as he reads the morning paper. Hearing heavy footsteps, Collins looks up and seems relieved when he recognizes Farrier, and he says gently with a wide smile:_  
  
_"Mornin', Farrier."_

  
  
  
  
  
Dreams of coffee and Collins dissipate in a moment as the harsh German shouts and the wretched bell bring him back to reality.   
  
His dirty woolen blue scratches against his skin, and he’s thankful that they didn’t force him to give up his white sweater, the thick wool barely keeping out the cold during the nights. His bunk-mate is already awake, a chatty Australian RAF pilot named Richard that was shot down over France.  
  
“Ready for another day in the madhouse, Farrier?” Richard asks cheerily, patting down the creases on his outfit and cleaning off the grime on his cap. He’d tried to call Farrier by his first name but gave up after a few tries when Farrier refused to answer and gave him dirty looks. Farrier’s suspicious of Richard’s positive attitude, feeling that it must be compensating for something dark and bothersome in his soul. He’s seen men like him crack under the pressure of war far too many times.  
  
“Have to look nice and proper, you know, the Krauts love neatness and order.” Tom, another British RAF pilot on the bottom bunk bed across from theirs chimes in with a twinge of sarcasm, a cheeky grin on his face. His right hand is on his pipe, and he holds it possessively.  
  
Robert, the occupier of the bunk above Tom, is already gone. A tall Scot, also RAF, whose accent painfully reminds him of Collins each time he speaks, Robert was civil but cold to Farrier at first. But that all changed when Farrier walked in on him organizing a small escape plan, Farrier never mentioning it afterwards. He’d warmed up considerably after that, feeling he could trust the newcomer.   
  
Tom stood quickly from his bed, wordlessly walking out of their room to head towards the courtyard. Richard quickly followed suit with Farrier leaving last, dragging his right leg with a wince each time he took a step. It wasn’t broken, he was sure, but he almost thought he’d had it when he was beaten brutally a few weeks back for stealing food. He remembered the guards being expressionless as they used fists, feet, and batons to elicit a response from him, their growing frustration evident in the blows that became harder and more painful, targeting soft areas they knew would hurt him the most.  
  
The attacks suddenly stopped as his vision turned black and he welcomed the freedom from life that he desired so frequently now, but he woke to the gentle face of Robert above him, his warm and rough hand on his forehead almost burning against his cold skin.  
  
“Thought you’d gone and left us for a second there, mate.” Robert said, his pained expression slowly turning into a tiny smile.  
  
Farrier coughed, each movement bringing on terrible pain, but he was thankful that there was no blood was coming up. He would live.  
  
Farrier shakes his head violently to get the memory out of his head as he takes his place behind Richard, the courtyard an array of blue, beige, and khaki colored uniforms.  
  
They’d taken away his watch but he could guess by the sun’s position that the bell for roll call would start around 6am each day. Each prisoner’s name is called out, the ones refusing to answer quickly reminded of their place with a prompt whack to the head. After their daily morning routine finishes, the prisoners quickly break off to form their own cliques, some friendly and others hostile, each trying to make do with what little they have to survive.  
  
What he would give to smell that bitter coffee in the morning again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was the silence that got to him first.  
  
The novelty of the quietness was unnerving, and he couldn’t prevent himself from starting at Farrier’s empty cot, hoping that if he wished hard enough he’d just magically re-appear on top of it.  
  
He felt hopeful the first week. Farrier was one of the best pilots of the squadron, if not the entire RAF. He knew that Farrier was likely captured, hurt, tortured, or even dead, but his heart wouldn’t let him give up that small hope that kept the other thoughts at bay.   
  
When a new recruit arrived to take Farrier’s cot, he tried his best to be friendly, asked enough questions to seem interested, but found himself angry--who was this stupid new recruit who thought he could replace Farrier? He’d have to ask him to be relocated to another room once Farrier came back, which he expected to be any day.

With each passing night he began to loathe his new roommate, the rhythm of his breathing suffocating him, each ragged intake acutely reminding him that Farrier was gone.

Nights were the worst, the silence seeping its way into his mind. The questions repeated themselves over in his brain, like a cursed chant: why didn't Farrier turn back? Was it his fault that Farrier didn’t come back?  
  
Did Farrier even care for him, in the way that he had wanted?  
  
  
  
  
  
Two weeks, then three pass with no news of Farrier.  
  
Collins was beginning to hate going to the mess, the pitiful looks of his fellow pilots boring holes into his back. A sudden and tense silence would permeate throughout the room each time he entered, as if his mere presence was a terrible burden to bear for the others. He used to be the gregarious one, the one who’d start the drinking games and songs in their favorite pub, the one who could joke with the new recruits and the CO alike, the one who always had a confident air about him with a smirk on his face. Now he takes his drinks at the furthest table on the corner, watching the others enjoy the night with contempt.  
  
Collins takes out a small bound notebook, about the size of a pack of cards from his breast pocket. After placing it on the table, he takes a long slurp of the dark ale, placing the glass back loudly. He gentle strokes the faded green cover with his right thumb, feeling the roughness of the paper, worn down in certain spots through use. He glances around, making sure that none of the others are looking ,before delicately opening it.  
  
The first few pages he flips through are filled with tiny sketches of planes, mostly of Hurricanes and Spitfires. Human shapes slowly start to invade each proceeding page, RAF uniforms sketched out finely with dark ink. Full body portraits of various faces began to disappear until there’s only one recurring face left, the lines drawn with purpose. The man is looking away, staring off at something far, with tousled dark hair and sad but defiant eyes, full lips in a hard line. He looks serious, pensive, even apathetic at times, and as Collins reaches the end of the notebook, the man’s portraits begin to intently gaze back at him, as if the man was going to ask an important question.  
  
The last portrait of the man, dated in late May, is softly drawn, warm lines etching out hints of a smile tugging at the corners of the man’s lips and eyes.  
  
Collins gently closes the notebook, stroking the cover with both hands tenderly, as if touching the face of a loved one.  
  


6 months have gone by since Farrier’s disappearance. 

The sorties never stop thanks to the Germans, who are bombing any stretch of Allied land they can find. Each battle with the enemy is a deadly dance of skill, wits and luck, with pilots being shot out from the sky like birds. Before Dunkirk, he was one of the most junior members--now, he's considered a veteran.  
  
Collins gets out of his Spitfire’s cockpit after returning from a particularly bloody battle, and quickly jumps off of the wing to inspect the damage. The ground crew rushes over as well, assuring him that it can be patched up. Collins trudges on mindlessly after towards the mess, when he sees the CO heading towards him with a steady gait. A stocky, bushy mustached Irish man by the name of Murphy, he has a hard countenance but Collins knows he's full of compassion for his men--there was no other way that he could perform his job so well, otherwise.  
  
He hopes it isn’t about his recent sullen behavior--if the CO thinks he has combat fatigue, he could be stationed somewhere else, making it impossible to find out what happened to Farrier.  
  
“I’ve received a letter this morning, and I thought you should read it.” The CO states in a hushed voice, handing over a manila colored envelope. Collins feels dread in the pit of his stomach.

Collins uses his fingers carefully to take the thin paper out, unfolding it.  
  
_"Dear Sir,_  
  
_This letter is to confirm that Flight Lieutenant William Farrier, No. 9642961, of Squadron 910 “Fortis” was regretfully reported as ‘missing’ on 5 June 1940 over Dunkirk, France._  
  
_Unfortunately as we received no information or communication confirming the status of his whereabouts for the past 5 months, we express our deepest regret that we now consider Flight Lieutenant William Farrier to be killed in action over France._  
  
_We deeply mourn the tragedy of losing a heroic soldier and outstanding citizen, although there is consolation knowing that he gave his life for the cause of preserving freedom._  
  
_Again, we extend our heartfelt sympathies._  
  
_Yours faithfu-_  "  
  
Collins tries to stop his shaking hands before he loses control, and folds the letter in one rushed movement.  
  
Murphy stares at him with a look of sympathy and pity in his eyes, even though Collins is sure he cannot even remember how many times he’s had to deliver such news.  
  
“I’m sorry, son. I was really hoping he would make it back. I know he was the last of your original squadron.”  
  
“Yes. Michael was shot down as well at Dunkirk.” Collins states coldly, pumping his hands repeatedly into fists, nervously.   
  
“I’ll see if I can manage to get you a 48 hour pass starting tomorrow.” Murphy gives him a strong pat on his shoulder. Before Collins can protest, Murphy is already walking briskly back to his office. 

 _Killed in action. Killed in Action. Killed. In. Action._  
  
The words mock him, each syllable painfully drilling into his head.   
  
_Killed in action._

  
His brain was screaming at him, _you idiot, you bloody idiot, what did you expect? It's been over half a year, did you think he'd come back to you in one piece? How many men, good men, better men like him than you, had their lives taken away?_  
  
Maybe this was his punishment, to continue living in a world where loved ones were taken away from him with a single hit of tracer fire, where new people rotated in and out of his life before he could even remember their full names. Maybe this is what he deserved for not only for ruthlessly taking the lives of his fellow man on the other side, but also for falling in love with a man, a sin.   
  
His feet start carrying him on their own, a brisk pace turning into a full sprint, and he finds himself in the empty hangars, heading towards his Spitfire.  
  
He stretches out his arms and leans his weight in to caress the damaged wing, gripping the metal tightly.  
  
The first tears came in small drops, marking tiny rivers down his face. Collins then let out a shudder, trying to slow down his breathing, to stop the sob making its way from his chest to throat.  
  
"Damn you Farrier, damn you!" He manages to yell, tears bursting forth, drops marking the collar and front of his blue uniform.  
  
He cries until he feels nothing, and promises to himself that he'll never love again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta-ed, so apologies in advance for any mistakes. the next chapter will be much shorter and will be the last of this fic--i'm planning to continue and make this into a series.
> 
> thanks for reading !


	5. December 24th, 1941

_"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Farrier screamed angrily, throwing his gloves off one by one onto the ground and heading towards a young, sandy haired pilot who had just jumped out from his Spitfire's cockpit._

_The smile on Collins' face turned into a worried frown in an instant._

" _No sir, I was jus-"_

_"Oh, you were just chasing down Jerry for fun? Even when a superior officer told you to not break formation. That it could have been a trap, to lure us into a more vulnerable position." Farrier spat out at Collins coldly. He jabbed a finger at the silver wings embroidered on the taller pilot's chest, hard._

_"You could have gotten yourself killed, or worse, members of your own squadron killed because of your poor judgment." Farrier stared harshly at him, and continued to do so, even when Collins tried to avert his gaze._

_"I-I'm sorry sir, I-I wasn't thinking clearly."_

_"I'm not your father, boy, so stop calling me that. And if you're going to survive, I expect you to keep your wits about you. At all times. Listen to your squadron leader. He's an old man, but he's got the experience to go with it. Understood?" Farrier softened his tone, trying but failing to make his voice sound as soothing as possible._

_"Understood, si-, I mean, Wi-, I mean,  Farrier." Collins smiled back nervously, hoping this would end this conversation._

_Farrier squeezed both of his shoulders with a strength that surprised him, and stared intensely at his face, as if he was trying to find a tiny sliver of doubt or dishonesty. Collins noticed that his steel blue eyes were flecked with gold that shined in the sun, and that they were very beautiful._

_After a drawn out silence in which he expected to be berated further, Farrier stated in a hopeful voice,_

_"Don't let me down, Collins." He released his grip at once and walked away while lighting a cigarette, a wispy smoke trail following his path. He stopped to pick up his black gloves by his Spit and waved to Collins to come into the mess from the doorway._

_Collins let out a long, pent up sigh of relief._

_He'd passed the test the others had warned him about: Will Farrier, Flight Lieutenant of Fortis squadron, seemed to have accepted him as one of their own._

_He hoped he wouldn't let him down._

 

 

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Collins screams while peeling off his parachute angrily, letting it thump onto the cold ground. His footsteps make a satisfying crunch on the fresh, wet snow as he trudges his way towards a black haired boy with his back turned to him, slipping off a Spit’s wing.

The boy turns towards the sound of screaming, the sweat dripping off the front of his ink colored hair. He draws into himself when he sees the anger on Collins’ face, as if expecting a blow.  
  
“Alfred! Alfred Carter!” Collins screams, his eyes wide with rage.  
  
Alfred manages a meek salute. “Yes, sir!” His voice squeaks.  
  
“Don’t sir me lad, I’m not your father. What the bloody hell did you think you were doing back there? You do not disobey direct orders from your superior officer! ” He’s gotten thinner but he’s still taller than the boy which he uses to his advantage, his face hovering just above Alfred’s.  
  
“I-I’m sorry sir. I was just excited to get to finally see combat and I-”  
  
“Combat? You’ll see plenty of that from now on without chasing down every bloody Kraut you see. What if it had been a trap, to lure you away and disrupt our formation?” Collins didn’t move, his expression hard.    
  
“I-I’m not sure, si-I mean, Collins.”  
  
Collins sighs and runs his fingers through his long hair. It's matted against his scalp, and he knows it’s overdue for a cut.  
  
“Alfred, a much better pilot than me once told me that I must not let him down. Do you know why he said that? Because there needs to be only one weak link in the chain to break the strength of the entire team. So I'm going to tell you the same-- don't let me down, Alfred. And don't be so stiff all the time, you’ve got to be relaxed in your kite if you want her to fly her best.” Collins manages a weary smile and pats Alfred’s shoulder, in a sign of approval.  
  
Just another replacement for the ones that fell in their recent sortie over France, he reminds himself.  
  
Another lamb he’s leading to the slaughter.  
  
“Hey Sunny, CO wants to see you. Hope it’s nothing too serious.” Scott Young, a fellow pilot with a low, rumbling voice disturbs his dark thought, winking at him. The nickname was new, born after Farrier’s disappearance. He’d grown used to it now, although he wasn’t sure if he appreciated the irony in the name.  
  
Collins sighs again and nods, pushing his way past Young into the waiting room, where a few pilots look up from whatever they're doing to stare at him while he passes through.  
  
He knocks on Murphy’s door and lets himself in. Murphy’s eyes are furrowed over what looks like a report, and he quickly looks up when he hears the sound of the door closing.  
  
“Ah, just the man I was looking for. Received a letter from our beloved Air Ministry for you.” Murphy slides over a crisp, white envelope with Collins name underlined in bold. The CO is humming lightly and tapping the desk, a tune that sounds familiar from his childhood, but that he can't quite place.   
  
Collins picks up the envelope gingerly with both hands open, careful not to bend or crinkle it. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat and wants to vomit, the sound of cheerful humming making his nausea worse.  
  
“Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to read this in private…” Collins feels cold.  
  
Murphy just nods, a flash of worry in his eyes that disappears under a forced smile. He quickly goes back to reading, still humming.   
  
_He looks tired,_ Collins thinks as he shuts the door as quietly as possible. _But he probably thinks the same of me,_ the shallow nights of sleep etched on his face.  
  
He keeps the letter in his right hand, keeping it low and out of vision of anyone he might run into on the way to his new room at the very end of the barracks. He’d been upgraded to a place of his own when they’d made him Squadron Leader, one of the few perks that he truly enjoys of the job.  
  
Then he can have some privacy when he has night terrors, frequently triggered by thunder or even the sound of rain lashing against his window.  
  
_The same dream continues to haunts him, as if his mind was a broken film reel playing the same scenes over and over. It begins each time with him flying in his Spit, when it starts shaking violently and his vision becoming blurry as he feels the plane pitch and start to fall towards the calm, dark blue ocean. As he hits the water it rushes in to greet him, rapidly filling up the cockpit. His arms seem to be made from lead, and it takes all his strength to open the canopy. It barely moves a few inches before stopping, only enough to put his hand out.  No matter how hard he tries to pull it back, it doesn’t budge. Another Spitfire circles above, saluting him by dipping his wing, unaware of the deadly situation his wing-mate is in. The water starts to come up to his neck, and he’s hitting the canopy with his gloved hands, pain reverberating through them with each hit. He can’t stop himself from panicking and hitting the canopy even harder as the salt water starts coming in through his mouth with each intake of breath, burning down his throat. The entire cockpit is now filled with water. He continues to scream, his body fighting and refusing to give in to death even though his mind knows that it’s futile, until he feels the water trickling down to his lungs and his vision becomes blotchy, then entirely dark._  
  
He wakes up each time with the dying sound of a scream, his throat raw and fresh sweat dripping down his face.  
  
  
Feeling relief at not having encountered a single person on the way, he shuts his door with a loud bang and takes off his blazer. Careful not to wrinkle it, he hangs it on the small wooden chair, the room feeling stuffy and stale even in winter. 

On the nightstand rests a sepia colored portrait of his family taken a few years before, a few weeks before his brother was called up to join the war. _The last time we would ever be truly happy, although we didn’t know it at the time,_ thinks Collins bitterly. A leather bound, well loved collection of poems by Yeats that once belonged to Farrier is placed in front of the photo frame, his sketchbook placed underneath. The darker haired pilot used to read aloud his favorites in their cramped room, eliciting laughter from Collins when he impersonated perfectly the up and down singing like voice of the poet.  
  
Collins sits on his bed, and it creaks loudly with his weight. He stares at the envelope, and takes a deep breath. He gets a small knife from the nightstand drawer, and concentrates on cutting the tightly sealed flap open, lifting a slightly unsealed section first and slicing it with one deft movement.  
  
He unfurls the sheet of paper. It’s from the records office.  
  
  
  
_Dear Sir,_  
  
_According to a telegram from the International Red Cross Society, quoting information from Berlin, Flight Lieutenant William FARRIER, No. 9642961 of No. 910 Squadron, Royal Air Force, previously reported as “missing,” then “killed in action,” is now a “prisoner of war.” The report states he was captured on June 1st, 1940 at Dunkirk, France. He should be able to communicate with you in due course._  
  
_If any information regarding Flight Lieutenant William Farrier is received by you from any source you are requested to be kind enough to communicate it immediately to the Air Ministry._

 _Your faithful servant,_  
_Jo-_  
  
  
  
  
A drop of water falls on the signature, blurring it.  
  
He's taken aback for a moment before he realizes it's coming from himself. He wipes away the tears falling softly--the paper must be kept in pristine condition, a precious, physical thing that’ll help ground him, to keep his sanity from drifting away from this world while he waits. For him.  
  
A chuckle escapes his lips, and it quickly turns into a manic laugh. _You’ve gone off the deep end Collins, this is it_. More tears start falling, tears of sadness and happiness, and he’s positive he’s a complete madman. If they saw him now they'd think he’d finally snapped and ship him off to the madhouse, a place where maybe he, no, _all of them_ fighting this fruitless war, belong.  
  
He blots away any remnants of tears with his loose shirt sleeve. He stares at the paper and mindlessly touches the edges, quickly wincing at the fresh paper cut on his index finger.   
  
The pain of the paper cut from the letter feels real, blood welling up and dripping down in a straight line. If he's bleeding from the letter, that means the letter is real, which must also mean that the news that Farrier is alive is real, too.  
  
His ears prick up as he hears singing from outside, a bit muffled but nonetheless a beautiful choir of female voices.  
  
They’re singing the same tune as Murphy earlier, and he remembers: it’s the melody for  _Silent Night._ He’d been so concentrated on the war that he’d nearly forgotten that it was only a few days before Christmas.  
  
It must be the WAAF -- he remembers now that they were supposed to set up a small Christmas tree outside in the terrible cold to 'provide a bit of Christmas joy and spirit'; poor things, trying their best to spruce up the pathetic little tree they were provided.  
  
The things Collins was thankful for he could count on one hand: that he was still alive, that he was still in one piece, and that he had a roof over his head.   
  
But now, he had received the greatest gift of all with this tiny, thin piece of paper, seemingly insignificant and random. A letter, in this little moment of his life, was all that was needed to give him hope.   
  
He grins, his heart finally feeling light.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Merry Christmas, Farrier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading, commenting, and kudo-ing! It gave me the motivation to finish this fic, for which I am tremendously grateful. I'm planning on writing the next fic on these two during the time Farrier is a POW, so stay tuned. and thanks again :) 
> 
> if you want to talk dunkirk to me, find me on the blue bird site at m__m1198. hope you all have a wonderful holiday season, wherever you are <3


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